


Sunlight

by EA_Lakambini



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Interpret the relationship as you will, Introspection, Short & Sweet, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:54:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EA_Lakambini/pseuds/EA_Lakambini
Summary: One sunny morning, Aziraphale finds Crowley asleep on the sofa in the bookshop. Aziraphale observes, and reflects.(Companion piece to "Moonbeams".)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22
Collections: The Ineffable Con 2





	Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in a writing rut for months, but managed to get out of it to write a tiny one-shot.  
> This is my entry to The Ineffable Con 2 Zine!
> 
> This story was written to be a companion piece to ["Moonbeams"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134120), but each can be read on its own.
> 
> Many thanks to [Raechem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raechem/pseuds/Raechem) and to [burnttongueontea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnttongueontea/pseuds/burnttongueontea) for the beta. All mistakes are mine.

Morning is creeping up slowly but surely, soft orange shafts of light spilling through the bookshop window, and Crowley is _still_ asleep on the sofa. He shifts slightly, the sprawl of his body adjusting just so, and the worn tartan blanket that Aziraphale had tucked around him hours ago slips at the movement and drops to the floor with a soft thump.

Aziraphale looks up at the sound, and sighs. This is inevitable, when Crowley ends up passing out after an extended evening of drinks.

“Crowley, it’s time to get up now,” he says mildly, eyes not quite lifting from the book open on his lap. Some five or six hours ago, when it was too late to be evening, the demon had still been sitting upright – well, _mostly_ upright, if one could describe that lazy languid stretch of limbs as such. But with every downed glass of wine and meandering conversation thread, Crowley had settled deeper into the sofa cushions, eventually leaning his head back and closing his eyes, sunglasses dangling idly from fingertips. And now… still mostly like that, but more so. Aziraphale would have complained about the snakeskin boots now scuffing the armrest if he weren’t so accustomed to this happening.

Aziraphale sets down his book on his table, and gets up from his chair to pick up the fallen blanket. He folds it tidily before setting it aside on the armrest, and turns to look at the sleeping being taking up far too much space on his sofa.

The sun has painted patterns on the demon’s face; golden streaks across sharp cheekbones, scattered petals of light on the long column of neck, and alighting like fire on coppery locks. The demon’s shirt has hiked up somewhat over the course of his sleep, exposing a surprisingly pale strip of lower back. Aziraphale can make out one or two delicate bumps of his spine, the gentle swoop of the small of his back, the hint of a bony hip.

“’S fine, angel, can sssleep a bit more,” Crowley mutters, his voice slow and heavy with sleep, slightly muffled from where his face is pressed against the cushion.

“Come now, dear boy; I know you dislike mornings but you really must get a wiggle on,” Aziraphale chides, unable to hide the affectionate tone in his voice. He is rewarded with a soft exhale of a laugh, and then a yawn.

Crowley’s eyes flutter open for a moment, flashes of yellow before being hidden by pale eyelids and dark lashes once more. The demon often has to hide his eyes – his _nature_ – from everyone; here in this stuffy cluttered backroom, however, he is unguarded, eyes hidden only by the delicate closure of slumber, and Aziraphale feels something almost like awe as he watches Crowley sleep.

Aziraphale knows that he’s not so isolated – he is an angel, a being of love and gentleness, and that comes with humans generally being accepting and calm around him. And of course, he has his fellow angels who are – hmm, not really kind, if he thinks about it too hard – _amiable_ with him; ethereal colleagues, holy acquaintances. But he’s certain that no one on this Earth, or Above or Below it, has ever _trusted_ him the way that Crowley is trusting him now, has always trusted him.

A demon – harbinger of Hell, of darkness, of evil – sleeping in the presence of an angel. Open and vulnerable, in the sunlight.

And Aziraphale can do whatever he wants with that. He could shake Crowley awake, and have to put up with the demon’s disgruntled yawns and grumbles. He could return to his armchair and to his book, and finish the chapter, if not the whole tome. He could softly stroke Crowley’s cheek, and hear the mild purr of contentment at the touch. He could make himself a cup of tea, and probably another cup for when the demon finally wakes (keeping it miraculously hot until then). He could even tickle Crowley’s side, and laugh at the demon’s half-conscious attempt to swat away at the offending intruder to his sleep. He could leave Crowley to continue napping in the backroom, and begin preparing the bookshop for another day of occasional customers and not-so-occasional reshelving of inventory. He could run a light hand through Crowley’s hair, play a little with the russet strands. Whatever he _chooses._

Aziraphale smiles to himself, perches on the sofa edge, and then gently brushes his lips at the side of Crowley’s mouth. The demon responds to him almost instinctively; arm wrapping almost serpent-like around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him close. Crowley’s body curves towards his, fitting so neatly, and Aziraphale basks in the early morning sunlight and the warmth of the demon’s skin.

“I like morningsss when ‘s with you,” the demon mumbles drowsily, long fingers wrapping around Aziraphale’s wrist. Aziraphale hums contentedly in assent, a peaceful sound, a morning lullaby as day breaks around the two of them. No shadows or darkness, except for the ones they cast together in the soft light of another dawn.

Crowley then wakes fully, looking up at Aziraphale with a steady gaze. Gentle, loving, warm, _here._

The sunbeams seem to pale next to the gold of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for dropping by!


End file.
